Disclaimer: See first chapter.
-xDarkxTatsux: Thank you for your review. I hope this chapter is as good as the last. :)
A.N. - just for reference for the future, when I write His pov, it is Erik's and when I write her pov, it is Avayla's.
Excuse the lack of Erik, but this is an important for back-story and a future reference as to why Avalyn is sometimes cruel and unfeeling in upcoming chapters.
-
-
-
Erik would have had a beautiful sleep if it weren't for that vile Carlotta and the opera's so called 'managers' making a fuss in the grand foyer and God knows where else in his precious opera house.
He had a fitful rest, but he rested nonetheless and awoke with big plans forming in his head about what he would do this night, what with an opera he had to observe. He did not want the opera house to scoff at his demands any longer and plotted, rather darkly, about what he would do now.
"But those worries are nothing compared to what Christine thinks of me now, how she had looked at me!" He wailed suddenly while pacing in his lair, sheets of music strewn about, broken bottles of ink lay broken against a wall; the wall itself was shiny and still dripping the red blood of the ink.
A sigh escaped his lips, his eyes down turned and softly glowing, he reached down and grasped a little figurine from his display of characters and cast. His chagrin changed to a wicked smirk splayed across his features as he made the figure hop around the stage and croak.
Her pov.
"I think I've burned myself but I can't exactly feel it, papa. What should I do?" My voice roared over the bubbling sauce and steaming vegetables in the kitchen to my father, who was chopping tomatoes.
He lifted his head and nodded it towards the sink, where I quickly ran my hand under a stream of warm water. Promptly, a large red welt appeared down my arm in the shape of a thunderbolt from the scalding water.
It was just hours from the newest opera production, Ill Muto, and my father and I were cooking under a deadline that was coming to an end far more rapidly than we were keeping up.
I sighed and resumed my duty of boiling the tortellini pasta, all twelve pounds of it, for the management and cast of the play. I was occupying myself with proportioning the spices and salts for the night when I thought I heard faint singing coming from the vent next to the table I was working at. Looking back at where my father was working to make sure he wouldn't see, I lowered myself down on the floor, kneeling so that I could hear the noises without straining my neck, I listened.
It started soft, but as he became angrier his voice grew more powerful, filled with a profound sorrow I felt in my heart. The melody, the words, and the way he sung his grief brought such tears to my eyes I had only felt once before in my life. His song reminded me of the misery I felt when my mother died not long ago and my heart bled with his; sorry for him and who he had lost or was going to lose.
I was snapped out of my miserable nostalgia by my father's stern yet soft voice saying that I was going to burn tonight's dinner. When I stood up and turned to face him, when he saw my tears he immediately came over to me and comforted me, knowing that the only reason why I would be red faced and weeping was for her. We had both loved her so much and when the news came that she was terminally ill, my father almost murdered the doctor, who only shook his head and said he was sorry for us.
"Are you alright, Ava?" He asked me gently and with a hand on my shoulder. I could only nod and resume my cooking, my face hot and my morale numb. I was not ready for what the Phantom had in store for the evening, but as always, I placed an extra bowl of steaming pasta next to the vent and went backstage to watch the night's performance and hope to mask my sadness.
A. N. - Sorry for such a short chapter and the long delay, work has been taxing on my time. Hopefully the next installment should be ready before Christmas.